


Home in a Sack

by Marta



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Meetings, Gap Filler, Gen, POV First Person, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-16
Updated: 2004-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:10:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marta/pseuds/Marta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond and Pippin meet for the first time after the War of the Ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home in a Sack

"Ah, here we are," Pippin said, the first words he had spoken to me since I had arrived in Minas Tirith. It was good to hear him speak. I had almost thought that distinctive cheeriness he shared with Bilbo lost forever, that wonderful twinkle in his voice I had first noticed when we met in Imladris.

He turned the handle of the heavy door and tried to open it, without luck. Pushing again, he threw his weight against the wood. Apparently it had stuck. He looked over his shoulder, his face red with effort. He looked frustrated -- or perhaps embarrassed.

I moved to help him -- that door was nearly twice as tall as he was! -- but stopped myself. Pippin glared at me and turned back to his task. "Allow me, my lord." His tone was sharp as a dagger, and that surprised me. He tried once more, and this time the door popped open, pulling him off-balance. He braced his hands against the doorframe, righted himself, and led me into the suite.

Does Pippin think I want him to fail? Something about him  _had_ changed. His hair was just as unruly and his figure nearly as stout as ever -- and that was to be wondered at, if even half the tales were true -- but, while he wore the sable and silver uniform well, I preferred him in the jolly yellows and greens of his fair folk. With his dark hair he looked almost Númenórean. But the world has enough grey-eyed sea-kings. Hobbits had a role to play in the great affairs as well as they. I would never doubt that fact again.

I looked around the room, pleased that Estel --  _No, Elessar_ , I corrected myself -- had remembered how much Elves liked the airy feeling balconies gave a room. 

"Will there be anything else?" 

Pippin's question pulled me from my reverie. I crossed the room and settled myself on the couch. "Some wine, perhaps," I said. He took the decanter of wine off the table and filled one of the glasses. I noticed the cheerful smile I remembered so well -- and which I had seen him bestow on others earlier that day -- was absent when he looked at me. Every muscle in his body seemed tensed. "You are well, Peregrin?" I asked, not altogether sure what title would put him most at ease. He clearly found everything I did a personal offense. That puzzled me.

"I am," he said, his voice level and distant. He offered no tales of his travels, though I did not doubt he had some to share. How unlike Bilbo. And how unlike the Pippin I remembered from Imladris, come to that. He is not the same halfling he was. I knew he had faced dangers greater than his folk ever expected to, and such adventures could not help but leave their mark. But how much could a hobbit change and remain himself?

I tried to smile and hoped that long years of trials had not robbed me of this most basic skill. "Sit," I said, letting him puzzle out whether I meant it as a command or a request.

He nodded gravely. "As you wish, my lord." Bracing his hands against the edge of the couch designed for a much taller person, he hoisted himself up and turned to face me.

"Elrond, if you please," I corrected him, "or Master Elrond if you insist. Even my own household staff do not call me lord. There is certainly no need for one as honoured by the king as you to do so." I took a sip of my wine. "Will you drink?" I asked him.

"If you wish the company, Lord Elrond," he said. His voice seemed as chill as the waters of Bruinen. 

I decided not to correct him on the title a second time. The least I could do was let him address me as he chose. "I did not ask whether you would drink if I desired the company, but whether you would like some of this most excellent wine." I reached across the table for the decanter and filled one of the other glasses. "You were not this hesitant in Rivendell, if I recall correctly," I added, a smile playing at the corners of my lips. Could a shared laugh perhaps convince him I wished him nothing but happiness? I handed him the glass. "We have still not managed to restock the wine cellar, to say nothing of the beer-barrels."

"The deliveries have been rather interrupted these last few months, I am sure," Pippin replied dryly. And he laughed bitterly. 

Usually I had found the halfling's laugh more heartening than the smell of crushed athelas. These dying lands certainly needed all such balms, and I had on occasion thanked the Valar and their Master for endowing Middle-earth with such a gift. But Pippin's laugh held no such healing.  _Not that you deserve a warmer welcome_ , I chastised myself. When news of events in the South had reached Imladris, I had realised that the legendary wisdom of Master Elrond of Rivendell had failed when confronted with this enigmatic halfling.

Yet perhaps I knew how to show him that I recognised his great worth. "Stay here," I said, setting my glass down on the table. I crossed the room to my bed-chamber where I knew my effects awaited me. I opened one drawer and then another in my clothes chest and searched, past the ceremonial tunics, cloaks, and gold rings--all of them could wait. Finally I found what I sought.

"I brought this to give you," I said when I returned. I took my seat on the couch beside him and offered him a forest-green velvet pouch, closed at the top by a slender black rope and decorated in gold thread with a scene of hobbits dancing under a smiling Sun and Moon.

The glass in his hand shook and he quickly set it down on the table before the wine spilt. "You...you..." He snatched the pouch from my hand, jumped off the couch, and paced across the room. "You -- you give me a sack? Like you would give a baby a toy? You deemed me little more than a child and would have sent me home. I said I would follow unless you locked me in prison, or tied me in a sack. I'm sure you thought it wise, but --" His shoulders quivered with rage and his voice fairly dripped bitterness, more than I had thought his small body could hold. "So what did I do?" he demanded. "I froze at Caradhras; stumbled through Moria; was whipped, dragged, and driven across Rohan; drove Denethor to his own death, and nearly Faramir's as well--"

His voice broke off suddenly, and he turned to face me, his eyes burning with a fire that rivaled the flames of Orodruin. "But obviously you forgot how big I was. You should have brought a bigger sack, if you plan to send me home before I can do any more damage, to myself or to others --"

His nimble fingers shot into the pouch and, with a strength I had not guessed they possessed, they ripped the centuries-old cloth along its seams.

"Pippin!" I cried, but before the words had even crossed my lips I knew they were too late. Yet still I hurried across the room, not to stop him from destroying the heirloom but to comfort him.

"You care more about this precious pouch than you do for me," Pippin said as I knelt before him, the fire in his eyes dying away as he looked ruefully at the torn velvet in his hands. 

I pried his fingers apart and let the velvet fall to the floor, holding his small hands in my own. "Pouches can be mended easier than hobbits' hearts," I said, feeling a lump rise in my throat. "And I care naught for the pouch -- though I admire greatly the  _periannath_ worthy of it." I squeezed his hands affectionately and sighed. "I did not bring it to carry you home in,  _though you may find it a fitting home for a certain pipe_."

"A certain--?" Pippin stopped mid-sentence, and his hand groped his waistcoat pocket. "Do you mean to tell me that this pouch goes with Bilbo's pipe?"

Elrond nodded soberly. "He asked me to give it to you when he heard of Arwen's wedding. He had meant, of course, for you to have it when he gave you the pipe back on his eleventy-first birthday, but in all the commotion of the party I believe he simply forgot."

Pippin's chest shook, both with laughter and sorrow I deemed. "I traded the pipe Bilbo had given me for a Dale-made horn before I knew that it had been carved by the Bullroarer himself," he explained. "I ripped the pipe-pouch in half -- again, before I knew what it was. Tell me, Master Elrond, are there any other of Bandobras' effects I should expect? I hate to think what I would do to the third."

"The Dúnedain keep a certain flint-box, which they will redeem for the rods of the five wizards..." I began but found I could not keep a straight face. Before I knew it I was laughing -- laughing as I had thought I never would again. All of the Great should have a halfling or two in their care, to teach them the meaning of the word, and to remind them of why they labour. Pippin laughed, too, and the cruel fire in his eyes died altogether, revealing the gentle twinkle that the fierce flame had masked.

I led him back to the couch. "The pouch we will mend," I assured him. "It will sit, with your pipe, on the mantelpiece at Great Smials until your grandchildren's grandchildren have passed beyond the circles of the world." I patted him on the knee. "You, my good Took, have ensured that there will be such to remember the noblest Took who ever lived."


End file.
